Fine-Tuning
by Aleanbh
Summary: Jane and Lisbon: A song so sweet. Several moments from their story where music helped them along to where they are today.


_**AN:**_ _For G., for all he's done; my life and a hundred others' have been so much richer for it. Reviews much appreciated._

* * *

From the very moment he realises she had played an instrument in her youth, Jane can think of little else but finding out which instrument that was. He's not quite sure why, but he needs to know. He has had a deep fondness of music for the longest time, and has spent a few whiles as a youngster tinkering around on whatever instruments he could get his hands on. The urge to know which instrument – to picture a younger Lisbon playing said instrument burns in him for those days spent reliving their teenage days. While working the case, he finds himself distracted by images of a younger Lisbon tuning up amongst other instrumentalists, of this younger Lisbon in a music room, while the present Lisbon begs his attention for the case they are working today. But when all is said and done and the case is closed and they find themselves in the middle of the school reunion _prom_ \- for the want of a better word - of all places, he is glad that he can take the opportunity to corner her into finally giving him a definitive answer as to which instrument had been her choice to play long-forgotten melodies on.

But then he takes her in his arms to a different tune and for that moment, and from then on, it doesn't seem to matter so much. He has made a new memory from that case to focus on, and it is not the memory of the possibility of an instrument, but the feel of her hand in his, the resting of his hand on the solid presence of her back under his touch.

* * *

Lisbon hangs around the bullpen longer than necessary, listening as Willie plays on long into the evening as it becomes the night. Afterwards, despite her tiredness after the day that was, after finishing the relevant forms for the case, Lisbon finds herself still at work, watching Jane making a cup of tea for her for the road.

"That was a beautiful thing you did, Lisbon; getting that saxophone for Willie," he says lifting a mug from the press down to rest on the counter.

She smiles her thanks in agreement, and doesn't mention the fact tea was never delivered 'to go' in a ceramic mug.

"You like music," he says then abruptly.

She almost laughs. "Of course I do. Everyone does."

"No," he says quickly, dismissing her brushing off of his observation. "No, I mean you love it. More than most. You appreciate it; you appreciate good music."

She crinkles her nose in contemplation. "I suppose." He smiles at her admittance. "Yes, actually, I'd say I do." She returns his smile.

"Good to know," he says and she shrugs.

"I-" she goes on, but stops as Jane gestures silently, raising a finger to her, calling for her quiet. "Shh, listen."

And there it is, the saxophone lilt making its way down toward them.

"He's still there?" Lisbon whispers. "His lawyer's been and gone."

Jane hands her the mug of tea and before she can protest he has silently and stealthily made his way towards the viewing room of the interrogation room in which Willie sits playing, gesturing back at her to follow. And so Lisbon finds herself drawn back under the spell of the music she has made possible, and, not fully intending to, finds herself later, sitting, settled on the table, beside Jane, their feet dangling, tea in hand, fully absorbed by the jazz and blues carrying through from the room next door,as the old man plays on, unaware of his audience in the next room.

"I told you a lie last year," Lisbon says quietly.

"Oh?" He's not sure if she's being sincere.

"You were right. It was clarinet. I played clarinet in high school. Played it well, if I say so myself."

"I knew it!" Jane exclaims, and Lisbon grabs at his arm to quieten him so as not to disturb their private concert. "Why'd you fib?"

Lisbon shrugs, the smug grin on her face. "I don't know. The 'no' just flew out. I don't know why I did. Maybe because you were laughing at me for having that idiot kiss me. Maybe to see if I could? I don't know. But now you do. Clarinet. There you go."

"He was a bit of an idiot, alright," is all Jane says, and Lisbon nods, feeling the threat of awkwardness coming over her and already regretting referring to the incident now. In this room, after hours, alone and intimate with a jazz accompaniment has been nice. To bring up the subject of kissing – of _anyone_ kissing _anyone_ – now, between them, is just a step too far, and Lisbon hopes to God he won't think anything of it. She has just begun a fully-fledged and silent fret when Jane speaks.

"So," he says deliciously, relishing her confirmation at last. "The clarinet was your instrument of choice. What would that have made you? A clarinet-player? A clarinettist? A music nerd?"

Lisbon laughs, low and real, glad that he has dismissed the previous tension with his words. A tension that might have been wholly imagined on her part. "All of the above, I'd say."

"That's fair."

He watches her as she watches the old man play on, loving the moment she has created. "You'll have to play for me sometime," he says, almost regretting distracting her from the music she clearly loves so dearly.

She looks at him, scepticism clear on her face. "I doubt very much that _that_ 'll happen. Someday. Maybe."

"Is that a promise?"

She tilts her head to him, safe in the knowledge it will never come to pass. "Of course," she says sweetly. "I promise."

"Good. That's just topped this lovely evening, Agent Lisbon."

"I'm sure," she scoffs at him, and then sighs, returning her look to Willie as she sides off the table and returns to her feet. "But for now, I think it's time to send Willie on his way and for us to head home. God love him, Jane, I suppose he's nowhere else to go."

"He's not the only one." Jane's words hang on empty in the room.

" _Jane_."

He is afraid to look at her, afraid of the care and the hurt she feels for him he will inevitably see there. The words had slipped out, he hadn't thought them through, distracted by being here, with her, with the music.

"Yeah, he's not the only one," Jane repeats in an attempt to salvage his words, standing up beside her. "We all know what you're like, Lisbon, slaving away 'till all hours at your desk. Have you no home to go to at all, _Agent_?"

Lisbon is taken aback but plays along for his sake, knowing there is nothing else she can say to help him.

"That's me," she says meekly. "Here until all hours."

They watch Willie finish his sad song and as its last strains fade away, Jane feels Lisbon's hand enclose his briefly, and it occurs to him then how he has never fully appreciated the beauty of jazz before tonight.

* * *

After the christening they return to the house she grew up in, and return to her room to finish the exploring he'd begun the few days previous. "So just to be clear, you definitely _didn't_ play the clarinet, eh, Lisbon?" She turns to see him lifting her aged and dusty instrument from a box on the floor.

"Ha, ha," Lisbon warns, but laughs in spite of herself. "I told you in the end that I did, remember?"

"You did. And...?"

"And what?"

"I seem to remember a promise made that self same night."

Lisbon turns from him then, her high voice fully in play. "I've no idea what you're referring to, Jane. You must have imagined it."

He raises his eyebrows at her and she backs down. She makes her way back to him, shy smile firmly in place. She takes the clarinet from his hands, sits on the bed she hasn't slept on in years, and raising it to her lips, lets it play a run of clear and falling notes that make up a half-remembered melody.

"Very nice, Lisbon," Jane smiles, and it is then he notices how her face has fallen. "Teresa, are you okay?"

She lowers the clarinet and stills as she looks at it.

"I'm fine. Just thinking. This hasn't been played in close to twenty years. It just – it just brings it all back, you know?"

He nods, not pushing her, and yet knowing she will speak. "I used to spend any spare minute I got playing up here. I mean, spare moments were few and far between for me back then, with everything going on, but I tried. I loved it."

"You play well," he says and she shrugs.

"Maybe back then, but not anymore. It was just another thing I'd to give up on." She sets the clarinet down beside her on the bed and he takes her hands, pulling her up from the bed and into his arms. He can just imagine it, a younger Lisbon, as fierce and as loyal and as wonderful as she is today.

"You know what I'm thinking?"

"I rarely know what you're thinking, Jane."

"I'm thinking we should bring this back with us. To Austin. What good is it doing lying untouched in an old box here?"

She pulls back from his embrace to look at him. "Really? I don't know. You don't think it's better to leave it safe in the past?"

Jane is quiet for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I don't think so. Not unless you want to. I mean it's up to you. Some things, maybe, would be better left in the past, but I don't think music is ever one of them."

Lisbon nods her agreement , and they return to Austin with an old clarinet in tow.

* * *

Since their marriage, their new house has become Jane's pride and joy. He is happier and lighter these days than she has ever seen him before. She too is happier than she ever recalls being before. Memories come to her often these days, of other happy times in her life: nothing big or life-changing, just moments of beauty she has experienced in her life thus far. Holding her father's hand in happier days, skipping alongside to keep up with his longer footsteps is one. The rush of the thrill before she'd step out onstage, clarinet in hand, music under arm and a friend at her side, another. Rocking Annie to sleep as a baby as she'd hummed to her a nameless tune; watching her high school graduation cap twirl in the air as she'd watched it and known that despite all, she and hers would be well. The memories keep coming to her, steady and strong.

It seems she is not the only one. It has made her so happy to see Jane this happy, and they are both the better for it. He has been taking much joy for sharing his life with hers as they have been in what has been the happiest time for either as they've had in a lifetime. Perhaps it is the impending new life they are set to welcome, perhaps it is the happiness that comes with the security of love. He has been reflecting on how their lives have intertwined and changed and tuned to another: how their earlier clashing discords have adjusted to a most perfect harmony; how Lisbon has gone from providing the steady accompaniment, keeping his solo concerto anchored down to safety to becoming his equal in this duet soon to become a trio. It is a fine thing.

He has been sharing his memories with her more recently too, memories he's left unspoken probably too long. He is happy to share memories from another life, but only with Lisbon and most often spoken quietly in the safety of the small hours. He has told her of days, of moments left long unspoken. Of Angela's habits and ways, of his Charlotte's knacks and quirks, how she used to clumsily dance for him in the kitchen, of her fast and desperate desire to play the piano as well as her mother and father, although Angela had been the better player.

Lisbon holds her husband as he shares these stories with her, strokes his hair as they fall to easy sleep, safe in the comfort of having each other, and always looking to the future and not the past.

Their joy and happiness in this time has spurred their renovation of their new home on, with Jane at the helm under Lisbon's watchful eye. They are almost ready, and mere weeks away from the imminent arrival of their loved child when Lisbon comes, having woken from a rest, into the room in which Jane stands, perusing its contents. She's ready and willing to bring this up now, to make sure this will be okay.

"Hi, love," she says as she stands at the door.

"Hey," he smiles, and reaches over to kiss her cheek. "Sleep well?"

"Nah," she says. "I'm never going to get used to the whole resting thing."

"Never mind," Jane says. "I'll come and sing you a lullaby."

"Heaven forbid," she murmurs as she looks around the room. "It looks good, Patrick."

"I like to think so."

"You're going to have to move that bureau there, though," she says, nodding to the freshly varnished piece of furniture in the corner, head tilted in contemplation.

His face falls slightly, and she watches him as he turns to the bureau and steps toward it, considering. "Yeah?"

"Definitely," she smiles, sidling up to him and taking his hand in hers as she stands beside him. "Because I'm starting to think that's going to be the perfect place for this old piano I've had my eye on."

His face softens and she drinks it in.

"Teresa," he whispers.

"Only if you want, and only if- if you like the idea. I just was thinking about it, and –"

He steps to her and takes her in his arms silently, words not needed in this moment. They both know what it means.

"You can leave it in the past if you like," she murmurs. "But I was thinking about what you said back in Chicago, about music, and the future, and the past, and I was thinking about you, and our child, and how happy we all will be, and it just seemed right. I don't know, it just seemed like it was the thing to do."

"I love you, Lisbon. It's a wonderful idea. It means more than you can know."

He kisses her face.

"Good," she whispers. "That's very good."

* * *

 _Fin_


End file.
